Getting to Know You
by Vaeru
Summary: Oneshots. It takes some getting used to, hanging around mutant ninja turtles. "The VCR blinks 12:00 in a never-ending beat, but the television is off, and April blinks blurrily into the darkness, wondering briefly of where and why."
1. Warmth

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I own only whatever little insanities they happen to perform under my direction. Theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **Getting to Know You

**Summary: **Oneshots. It takes some getting used to, hanging around mutant ninja turtles. "The first time it had happened, April had passed it off as one of those standard, awkward 'getting to know you' moments."

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **none

**Author Notes:** You know it could happen. No warnings, no pairings. Awkwardness and fluff.

* * *

**Warmth

* * *

**

_Give what you have. To someone it may be better than you dare to think.__  
__**– **__**Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

**_

The first time it had happened, April had passed it off as one of those standard, awkward 'getting to know you' moments, like when she had tentatively run one fingernail along the edge of an oversized shell just to feel the strange rough-smooth texture. The odd look she had received had set her blushing, but nothing had been said.

She had been handing out her latest load of gifts (peace offerings, bribes for continued visiting privileges, what-have-you) – a package of simple white candles for Leonardo, a comic-book for Michelangelo, a shoot-'em-up/smash-'em-down DVD movie for Raphael – and had just passed a box of miscellaneous mechanical bits to Donatello when their hands had brushed together.

Not a spectacular occurrence, not even that rare, but an odd look came across the turtle's face – pensive, she thought – as he glanced at their overlapping hands.

"Huh," he said, and the moment was over. He grinned at her, chirped, "Thanks, April!" and headed for his lab to play with his new toys.

"Anytime," she replied to his retreating back. She frowned down at her fingers, wondering, _What the hell? _But then she remembered the incense she had brought for Master Splinter and strode for the aged rat's rooms, putting the strange happening out of her mind.

* * *

She did not know how she had gotten roped into an All Night B-Movie Marathon with Michelangelo…

Well, scratch that. She _did _know. She was new to the group, and therefore she was the only one who, apparently, was not sick to death of Michelangelo's taste in entertainment. Plus, she was still in the stage of quiet fascination with the turtles and their mentor, so time spent in their company was welcome, no matter what they were doing.

The other three turtles had been on their way to bed, uninterested in the upcoming marathon, Leonardo lecturing Michelangelo briefly about not letting lack of sleep affect his training the next morning. Raphael had snickered loudly ("Like we'd notice a difference!"), which had prompted a standard Raphael/Michelangelo Deathmatch – two blurs of green tumbling and wrestling across the floor of the lair, shouting insults, whilst everyone else rolled their eyes, sighed, and leapt out of the way as needed.

"He won't make it the whole night," Donatello had assured her during the grappling match. "He never does. He'll conk out about three… maybe five if caffeine is involved."

Splinter had broken up the match merely by striking his walking stick against the floor with slightly more force than normal. The two brothers had frozen, Raphael with Michelangelo in some sort of arm-lock while Michelangelo had a hold of Raphael's bandana tails like a set of reins.

Several backflips later, things had settled. The older brothers had gone to bed, and Michelangelo had flopped on the couch beside April, eagerly digging into the three bowls of popcorn (buttered, caramel-coated, and cheese-flavored) as the opening credits began to roll for _Santa Claus Conquers the Martians._ (1)

Several hours and thousands of screaming, badly-dubbed Japanese actors later, Donatello's prediction proved accurate. As a giant moth-monster terrorized Tokyo, the young turtle's head drooped, and he slumped slowly, slowly sideways, coming to rest against a tired but amused April. His head bumped against her shoulder, the edge of his shell digging into her arm.

"Mikey, you're crushing me," she said, grinning but only half-joking. A two-hundred pound adolescent turtle did not a good bed-buddy make. "Mikey?"

The turtle grumbled something incoherent, wriggling closer, eliciting a yelp when he burrowed his beak between her neck and the back of the couch. He wasn't _cold_, per say, but against the sensitive skin of her neck, he was freeziing! She pushed ineffectively against his chest.

"Mikey, come on!"

Her rescue came in the form of Raphael, the one turtle that still left her uneasy. He appeared out of the shadows like some kind of specter, scaring a good two years off of her life. With business-like efficiency, he reached down, grabbed his brother by the edges of his shell, and hauled him bodily off the couch, dumping him on the floor. Michelangelo squawked in protest.

"Ra-a-a-aph! I was _warm."_ Michelangelo pouted up at his brother – though how he was able to pout when his mouth was essentially a large beak, April would never know. "Not cool, dude. Totally not cool."

"Get to bed, shell-for-brains. Movie night's over."

Michelangelo was crawling back onto the couch like a slug, pulling himself up inch by inch, eyes mostly closed. He muttered something nearly incomprehensible (April caught the words 'mean Raphie' and 'Mothra shall avenge me.') before flopping his legs across April's lap, burying his head beneath a pillow, and proceeding to snore.

Raphael snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Idiot. Y'okay?"

"Yeah. Um… thanks?"

The turtle waved indifferently, heading toward the kitchen. "Anytime."

* * *

This started a pattern.

Michelangelo was easily a very touch-oriented person. April thought nothing of it that he continued to (there was no better word) _snuggle_ with her whenever they shared the couch – first on the weekly movie night, then several times a week as she became more and more comfortable visiting the lair and spending the evening watching TV with the brothers. She was mildly surprised when Donatello began to sit close beside her as well, occasionally leaning against her, but dismissed it with the easy affection she was beginning to feel for the group.

She happened to be sitting between Michelangelo and Leonardo once, though, and had been stunned to find herself squished between the two. Leonardo radiated 'Do Not Touch' almost as well as Raphael did, though in a much less 'Or I'll Gut You And Enjoy It' kind of way. Almost as soon as she had noticed it, though, he had started and shifted away, a strange expression upon his face.

_Leonardo? _she thought. _Embarrassed? _

A similar occurrence happened with Raphael, though that also came about because of Michelangelo pressing against her opposite side, pushing her against the larger turtle. Raphael, who would shove Michelangelo off the couch for even breathing on him, sat and endured the contact, never even glancing her way. That had been a very long evening.

It was just _bizarre._

Perhaps she was paranoid, but she would have sworn that one night there was a subtle-but-spirited race between Donatello and Michelangelo for the lone seat beside her on the couch – she had taken to sitting next to the arm, just to avoid being sandwiched. Michelangelo, self-proclaimed "fastestest turtle _ever_,"launched himself over the back of the couch and landed beside her with enough force to send her a good six inches off the cushions. His victorious "Hah!" merely cemented her suspicions that something very strange was happening right under her nose, and she had no idea what.

So she did the only thing she could think of. She started sitting on the floor.

The dumbfounded expression upon Michelangelo's face had been funny until it had morphed into puppy-dog disappointment.

"April?" he asked. "What're you doing down there?"

She tried to shrug it off with a grin. "Sometimes it's fun to sit on the floor."

"Oh."

The young turtle looked between her and the couch, her and the couch, her and the couch before flopping onto the latter with the air of a child that has just been informed that sorry, we know you were expecting a clown for your party, but Bongo called in sick, so here's your Uncle Rick – he can do bird impersonations. Happy birthday!

April felt like a heel, and she did not even know why.

* * *

Several weeks after her initial introduction to the turtles, she went on an errand to the local bookstore to pick up something for Donatello – he could order the volume he wanted over the internet, but actually going to the store to acquire it was a completely different problem. April's introduction to the turtles had been eased considerably by the fact that she could be their above-ground go-for.

Browsing the store more for curiosity's sake than any real desire to buy anything herself, she passed by the section labeled **ANIMALS **in big, bold letters and found herself gravitating to the Ts.

_Huh. Tapir, Tiger, Toad… Turtle! _

She grimaced at the thin, hardback book, barely large enough to qualify as an elementary picture book.

Now on a mission, she caught one of the store employees who directed her to the **PETS **section.

April picked up the turtle-owner's equivalent to _War and Peace _with a smug smile firmly in place, hefting the volume experimentally. If nothing else, she could carry it with her to bludgeon any would-be muggers. It even had color photographs.

_Pay dirt. _

April skipped that evening's rendezvous at the lair (She would give Donatello his book the next time she visited – he would forgive her for the delay.) to settle on her bed and begin her epic trek through the pages of _Under the Shell: A Complete Guide to Owning and Caring for Your Turtle._ Not even halfway through the first chapter, there was a word in bold letters (a keyword, complete with a definition in a nifty little sidebox) that gave her pause.

**Ectotherm: **a cold-blooded animal which regulates its body  
temperature by exchanging heat with its surroundings.

April stared. She reread. She blinked at the far wall of her bedroom.

And then, she started to laugh.

* * *

That Friday, she visited the lair, armed with her newfound knowledge and a sack full of samurai- and ninja- themed movies and half her bodyweight in junk food. She was met at the entrance by Michelangelo, per usual – she had learned very quickly that sneaking up on a family of ninjas was the very definition of Exercise in Futility. The sight of the young turtle bouncing on his toes and trying to peer into the bags made her laugh.

"Come on, Mikey. At least let me set these down before you start looting them."

He followed her to the ramshackle dining table and bobbed around as she unloaded the bags, looking like a giant raven eyeing a pile of unguarded jewelry ("Whatcha got? Is that ice-cream? I thought I saw ice-cream. Whadja bring me? Huh?"). Then, before he could begin examining the pile of junk food, she turned, slid one arm around his neck – she ignored the way his hands went to his belt in an instinctive jerk – and hugged him.

She chuckled at his dumbfounded expression, said a cheery "Hi," and set about putting the food away in the refrigerator and cabinets.

A moment later, a massive grin spread across his face, and he joined her in organizing the kitchen.

That night, she sat squeezed between Donatello and Michelangelo on the couch and added 'electric blankets (x4)' to her mental Christmas list.

* * *

**End Warmth

* * *

**

(1) An actual movie, my hand to God.


	2. Graceful

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I own only whatever little insanities they happen to perform under my direction. Theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **Getting to Know You

**Summary: **Oneshots. It takes some getting used to, hanging around mutant ninja turtles. "It all might have worked out if it had not been for the trashcan."

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **none

**Author Notes:** Raphael/April centric. No romance. Barely a friendship, but they're getting there.

* * *

**Graceful

* * *

**

_Everything is funny as long as it is happening to somebody else.  
_**– Agnes Repplier, Points of View

* * *

**

April had just been contemplating what to watch on TV – and idly wishing that the torrential downpour outside had not nixed her planned trip to visit the turtles – when a soft tapping on the windowpane caught her attention, and her heart tried to climb up her throat as she saw a hulking, shadowed figure crouched on her fire-escape.

Then reality reasserted itself (as much as it did in a world where ninjas and mutant turtles existed), and she hurried over to open the window, allowing a dripping wet Raphael to step into her apartment.

"Raphael, what are you doing out in this mess? Is everything okay?"

"Needed some air," he said, almost sullenly. He glanced around as though cataloguing her apartment's every feature and added, "I can go."

"No, no, uh…" She looked around as well, mentally wincing at the wrinkled blanket flung across the back of the couch and the basket of unfolded laundry in one of the kitchen chairs. The towel atop the pile caught her attention, though, and she walked over, snatching it up and tossing it toward her guest. "Here."

He caught it, glanced it over, and proceeded to rub off the worst of the water. April took the opportunity to grab the laundry and hide it in her room. When she returned, he was drying his sai with fastidious care, taking more time over the two weapons than he had his own body.

"Did you need something?" she asked.

The sight of the humanoid turtle against the backdrop of her apartment – her normal, everyday, perfectly average apartment – was throwing her for a bit of a loop. It was almost like a puzzle piece jammed in the wrong place.

Raphael made a short, scornful noise. "No. Like I said, I can go if you want."

"No. I'm sorry. I'm being really rude. Sit down? Here, let me take that."

She took the towel from him and tossed it through her bedroom door – she'd pick it up later. The turtle eyed the wooden chairs dubiously, but he eased his bulk into one. The wood creaked but held firm, and April headed into the kitchen, opening her 'miscellaneous' drawer.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

"No."

He was still tense, as though he were waiting for an attack of some sort. She took a moment to regain her mental footing. Problem: unexpected guest, bad mood, questionable temper. Solution: calm down and reassure. Plan of action?

Food.

"Here." She spread her collection of takeout menus on the table before him. "What would you like? Take your pick."

"I ain't here to mooch," he growled, glaring. "Just wanted outta the rain."

She raised an eyebrow. "Who mentioned mooching? I happen to have a very large, very heavy cement garden statue downstairs that needs to be moved into the show-room, and you look like just the kind of turtle who could help me out." She grinned. "So. Food in exchange for heavy lifting?"

He squinted at her a moment as though gauging her sincerity, and then he barked a laugh, one short fierce _'Hah!'_

"Deal."

Raphael insisted on moving the statue while they waited for the food to arrive – Thai food, to April's surprise, and the spiciest things he could find on the menu to boot.

She led him to the back room where the delivery service had left the garden ornament just inside the back door: a Savannah-girl statue – a young girl, three to four feet tall, with both arms outstretched, holding bowls for birdseed. April had tried to move it earlier but had been unable to even slide it across the floor.

Raphael reached for the statue, and April protested, "Wait, let me get you a handcart!"

The turtle grunted, gripped the statue around the middle, and heaved it off the ground.

"Where d'you want it?" he growled, teeth gritted.

"Raphael, you're going to hurt yourself!"

"_Where?" _he demanded again.

She had noticed that he and his brothers did not sweat, but if they did, she would have bet that Raphael would have been soaked all over again. She hurried ahead of him to open the door to the front section of the door and flick on the lights. The blinds were down – she made sure they were every night, just in case she had visitors of the green, shelled sort – and she pointed to a place just beyond the end of the front desk.

The turtle staggered past, wheezing beneath the weight of the statue.

It all might have worked out if it had not been for the trashcan.

Later, April would wish she had had a video-camera on hand so that she could replay the footage in slow-motion just to figure out what had happened.

Raphael stumbled, perhaps because of an uneven floorboard (It had certainly happened to April often enough.), perhaps because the weight of the statue had gotten to him, but during the short stagger to regain his balance, he knocked over the wastebasket, and… that was when it got a bit hectic.

Somehow, his foot had ended up _inside _the trashcan. Said trashcan had slid upon the slick, wood floor, nearly forcing the turtle into a split. Raphael had barked something – probably a curse, and probably something April was better off not understanding – and wrenched himself to one side. He staggered sideways – step, _bang, _step, _bang, _step – and hit the side of an overburdened roll top desk. There was a cascade of old books, another drunken whirl of turtle and statue, and the pair crashed to the floor with a thunderous _crack!_ that shook the building.

April stared.

The reason for the _crack _became apparent as the statue's head rocked side-to-side on the floor as though in reproval. Chips of concrete lay scattered across the floor in a massive spray, and the turtle shifted, raising his head, giving it a swift shake, and looking over the decimated statue as though it had personally offended him.

A strange, muffled noise escaped her, and she clamped one hand over her mouth, leaning back against the doorframe.

Raphael's gaze snapped to her, and his expression morphed from murderous to mortified.

"Oh, shell. April… I'll, uh… I'll fix it. Glue it. Donnie's got this stuff – be good as new, promise!"

_He thinks I'm about to cry, _she thought, and it was the last straw. Her self-control crumbled, and she burst out laughing.

She laughed so hard that tears crept from the corners of her eyes and her belly hurt. Her knees faltered, and she slid to a sitting position, wheezing for breath, and just when she thought she had a handle, she glanced at Raphael, and the laughter started all over again. She laughed so hard that the laughter itself became little more than breathless wheezes punctuated by desperate, squeaky gasps for air, and it was only the growing look of displeasure upon the turtle's face that made her fight to regain her composure.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped, wiping away her tears. "I'm s-so sorry, but–" She spluttered, overcome by giggles, only able to squeak out the word _'ninja!'_ before she lost it again. She closed her eyes and groped desperately for control before lack of air caused her to pass out.

When she looked up again, Raphael was standing, brushing himself off, face impassive, and her stomach fell. As she regained her breath, she wondered if this was it – if this was the moment she ruined the strange friendship growing between her and this remarkable family.

The turtle merely stood there, staring at her, one eye-ridge raised as though to say, 'Well? Are you done?'

_At least he hasn't pulled out his sai, _she thought. _That seems to be his standard reaction to situations like this._

"Raphael," she began, "I–"

The front doorbell buzzed.

Raphael vanished – _how the hell do they _do _that? _– and April scrambled to her feet and went to peek through the blinds upon the door. A pimply-faced youth peered back at her, miserable in a lime-green parka, white paper bag in hand. The rain was still going strong.

"Just a second!" she called. She glanced around again (_Giant turtle? Nope. Nothing to see here.)_ and unlocked the door.

"Delivery for April O'Neil?"

"That's me. Just let me get my purse." She was just turning around when something like a harder-than-average pillow struck her in the shoulder. She looked down and found her purse lying at her feet, crumpled and forlorn.

Not a turtle to be seen.

_Ninja, _she thought, caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance.

She paid the delivery boy, granting him an above-average tip in memory of her own long-ago stint in the fast-food industry and in sympathy for the hellish weather, and bade him goodnight.

When she had locked the door and turned back around, there was Raphael, standing arms akimbo, gazing at her with an indecipherable expression. April gulped.

"Look, I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that… I've seen you run up the stair banister in your lair _backwards._ You do back flips and acrobatics that would make the Cirque du Soleil people cry. And you… and the trashcan–" Her voice started to quiver with renewed humor, but a massive green hand clamped over her mouth.

"Don't start that again," he said, eyes narrowed.

He removed his hand, and she bit her lip, mumbling yet another 'sorry.'

He rolled his eyes. "Forget it."

"Thanks," she said, almost slumping in relief.

"For what?"

"Er." She fumbled. "For… not… punching me?"

Looking downright insulted _(Great job, April. One step forward, eight drunken, staggering steps back!)_, the turtle snapped, "Who the shell do you think I am, some back-alley abusive S.O.B.? Thanks a lot!"

"No! No, I mean, that just seems to be… I don't know! Standard turtle procedure or something! Your brothers–"

"_They _can take it." He jabbed her in the bicep with one broad finger, hard enough to hurt but not enough to bruise. "Yer all squishy and junk, and you ain't trained like us. You think we don't know how easy we could hurt you? How come you think you ain't allowed in the dojo?"

She backed away, stammering, "I th-thought… secret ninja stuff?"

"_Hah!"_ He sneered in contempt. "Shows what you know, don't it?"

"Hey!" Stung, she glared back. "At least I'm trying! And how's that any way to speak to the girl who bought you dinner?" She held up the bag and wiggled it. Spicy-sweet steam leaked out of it, tainting the air.

And as quickly as it had come, the scorn was gone, replaced with simple annoyance. The turtle shook his head, huffed to himself, and said, "Yeah, food. C'mon, then. I'll get _that _later."

He indicated with a wave of one hand that _'that' _was the shattered remnants of the statue, and he stalked for the stairs. After a moment to collect her scattered wits, April followed after him.

She thought that, if nothing else, this whole experience would help her to understand the red-clad turtle a bit better. Quick to anger, with a ferocious temper, but he cooled down as fast as he flared up. It was the interim that was scary.

Hands full of purse and take-out bag, she flicked the light switch with one elbow and started up the stairs, wondering if the excitement was over for the evening and if, perhaps, she could settle in for a quiet night of television and over-spiced food.

She tripped on the last step.

The bag of takeout went flying one way, her purse the other, and the floor of the upstairs hall reared up and attacked her.

When the flashy lights vanished from her vision, she pushed herself up on her elbows, and she stared up at the turtle who loomed over her, purse in one hand, food in the other, and shit-eating grin firmly in residence upon his snout.

"Now, that," he said. "_That _was graceful."

* * *

**End Graceful**


	3. Revenge

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I own only whatever little insanities they happen to perform under my direction. Theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **Getting to Know You

**Summary: **Oneshots. It takes some getting used to, hanging around mutant ninja turtles. "April realized that there was some truth to the teasing that Michelangelo received from his brothers – he really did scream like a girl."

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **none

**Author Notes:** April is becoming a part of the clan… and all the craziness that entails.

* * *

**Revenge

* * *

**

_**Buzz: **__I just want you to know that even though you tried to terminate me, revenge is not an idea we promote on my planet.__**  
Woody: **__Oh. Well, that's good.  
__**Buzz: **__But we're not on my planet, are we?_ _  
_**– Toy Story

* * *

**

She supposed it was a welcoming ritual of some sort. She should be honored. She was part of the group, an accepted member. It was what she had been working toward since she had decided that the four humanoid turtles and their rat father were real people instead of a shock-induced hallucination…

But as she stood in the turtles' kitchen, listening to the soft _plip-plip-plip_ of water dripping from her hair and clothes to puddle on the floor, she watched the impish smile on Michelangelo's face melt away into curiosity and then unease.

"Uh… April?"

"Mikey, what did you…" Leonardo rounded the doorway and stopped dead, eyes wide behind his mask. "Do?"

Groping for composure, April cleared her throat, swallowed, and swiped her sopping wet bangs out of her eyes with one equally wet hand. "Leo. Would you happen to have a towel somewhere that I could use?"

"Uh, sure. Just a sec." The blue-masked turtle bobbed his head in an uncertain little nod and, in a complete change of attitude, whirled on his brother, hissing, _"Mikey!"_

"What?" Michelangelo hefted a second water balloon in one hand. "She brought balloons. What else do you do with balloons?"

"How about _not _filling them with water and throwing them at guests!?"

"Guest? Please! Dude, April's practically family!"

Still in a kind of daze, April could only think, _It's nice to feel accepted. _

Undoing her ponytail, she set about wringing water from her hair, picking out stray pieces of yellow latex that were all that remained of the balloon itself.

"Leo?" she said. "Towel?"

The elder turtle broke off the fierce, hissed lecture he had been delivering to Michelangelo, said a quick, 'Right. Sorry,' and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. April turned her gaze onto Michelangelo. The turtle grinned and chuckled.

"No hard feelings, right?"

The grin died away into a confused frown as she merely walked past him out into the main lair. Donatello was already looking toward her, turned completely away from his computer, expression dumbfounded. He watched silently as she walked toward the dojo from which came the rhythmic thump and clatter of a punching bag being thoroughly pummeled.

She did not enter the dojo – she knew the boundaries, and Splinter had not yet invited her into that particular area of the lair – but stood in the entryway and knocked lightly on the doorframe. The burly form of Raphael paused in the middle of his workout, and as he turned, his eyes widened.

"What the shell?" The red-masked turtle stared. "Did Donnie blow up the sink again?"

The 'again' in that sentence worried her, but she put it away as something to ask about later.

"I think Mikey's a bit… bored. Maybe it would help if you sparred with him a bit?"

One thing she had learned early on with the turtles: all Raphael needed was an excuse.

The turtle's expression morphed from confusion to unholy anticipation in the space of a heartbeat.

"That so? I think I can help with that."

The smile spreading across his face was positively wolfish, and if it were any turtle but Raphael, April would have said that there was a cheerful spring in his step as he left the dojo.

Two seconds later, April realized that there was some truth to the teasing that Michelangelo received from his brothers – he really did scream like a girl.

Two hours later, April sat on the couch, wearing a four-sizes-too-large sweater and pants from Donatello's above-ground disguise wardrobe while she waited for her own clothes to dry, and she watched as Michelangelo trudged across the lair on the way to the bathroom, dripping with water, half of a bright pink balloon stretched tight over the top of his head like a swimmer's cap. He caught sight of her and visibly drooped.

"You fight dirty."

April smiled. "Remember that."

* * *

**End Revenge**


	4. Security

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I own only whatever little insanities they happen to perform under my direction. Theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **Getting to Know You

**Summary: **Oneshots. It takes some getting used to, hanging around mutant ninja turtles. "As she opened the door, the faintest trace of smoke hit her like a slap to the face."

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **none

**Author Notes:** April/Donnie centric. No romance. Friendship.

* * *

**Security

* * *

**

_Good friends offer to help in a crisis. Great friends don't take no for an answer._ _  
_**– Bree, Desperate Housewives

* * *

**

April awoke to the shrilling of her bedside phone and fumbled gracelessly for the receiver. The numbers 03:21 blazed at her from her alarm clock, prompting a put-upon moan as she raised the phone to her ear.

"'Lo?"

"April? I need you to go downstairs for a minute."

It took a solid minute for her brain to process both the identity of the voice and the strange request, during which said voice had prompted 'April?' a second time.

"Donnie?" she slurred. "D'you know what time it is?"

"Three-twenty-four _ante meridian. _Are you up?" His voice sounded a tad breathless and halting, as though he were speaking and performing his daily exercises at the same time.

"What's downstairs?"

"Humor me, April. Just go downstairs and have a look around."

The thought of _'Stuff like this never happened before I knew ninjas' _drifted through her sleep-blurred mind, but she sighed and murmured a put-upon, "Fine, fine. I'll have to leave the phone, though."

"That's fine."

"Okay."

She set the receiver down and wriggled out of her (nice, warm, comfortable) bed. Clad only in a tank top and a pair of soft cotton shorts, her hair a wild mess, she padded out of her bedroom and through the living room. She had to undo the lock on the door to the stairwell – her 'last line of defense,' to keep the living area upstairs separate from the store proper, – and as she opened the door, the faintest trace of smoke upon the air hit her like a slap to the face.

"Oh, no."

She hit the hall lightswitch. Her heart double-timed as she saw the faint haze hanging in the air, and she clattered down the stairs with such haste that she stumbled and nearly fell on the last step. The smell was stronger downstairs, thick enough to make her cough when she opened the door to the store. Turning on the light, she could easily see the pale whisps of smoke veiling the room.

Barely aware of her own voice chanting _no, no, no, please, no_, she tried to find the source. The smoke hung in the air evenly, and there was no sign of flames – nothing to lead her to the cause, and it was only getting worse.

Visions of flames and the burnt-out husks of buildings filled her mind. Her entire home gone in a blaze of fire, leaving nothing but ash and charred brick behind.

As her panic was about to build beyond where she could clearly think, the faint wail of sirens sounded, drawing nearer and louder, and she ran to the door just as the fire-department arrived outside.

The sidewalk was freezing beneath her feet as she ran outside. The sirens were deafening so close, but as the truck pulled to a halt, gleaming chrome and shining scarlet, the hideous noise ceased, and men in fire-fighting garb began to disembark.

"Ma'am?" One of them caught her by the shoulders as his fellows disembarked from the massive red engine, peering into her face. "Are you okay? Is this your building?"

"Yes! There's smoke in the front area – there, the store area. I can't find where it's coming from!"

"Okay. We'll take care of it. Johnson!" He repeated what she had said to another fireman, and the other started calling out orders to the others. Soon there was a team of men within the store, examining it inch-by-inch.

The man led her to the back of the fire-engine and wrapped her in a blanket that smelled of metal and soot and pressed her to sit on the back of the truck. He stood beside her, sometimes speaking over a radio.

April was aware of several things, disjointed – there were people on the sidewalks and in the windows of the surrounding buildings, staring; the moon was full, high overhead, but any stars were lost in the yellow-orange haze of light pollution from the city; the fireman had blue eyes, almost aquamarine.

Moments later, or perhaps hours, one of the fireman approached, a tall, thin floorlamp in his grasp. He set it down in front of her.

"Here you go," he said. "Bad wiring. Found it plugged in beside the desk."

"That?" April stared. "That's not supposed to be on the floor! I had it behind the desk so no one would mess with it. I needed to redo the wiring. It wouldn't light."

The man shrugged. "Someone plugged it in, left it switched on."

April could picture it. A curious customer, poking around where they shouldn't. Examining the lamp, plugging it in. Switch on, switch off, switch on – no results. Leave it plugged in, leave the store. There was no way she could watch the store every moment. She had to use the bathroom, answer the phone, look for something in the back room… A few minutes of inattention.

_Dear god._

The blue-eyed fireman spoke. "Your security company called it in. Good thing you had them monitoring your place, huh?"

"My security company?" she echoed, but the fireman had turned and was talking over the radio again.

Things settled quickly after that. The firemen did another walk-through, to be certain that there were no other hazards present. They gathered up their equipment, and at her asking, they threw the guilty lamp in the dumpster behind the building. April returned the blanket, and the blue-eyed man bade her a good night, advising her to 'stay safe.' She wondered if that was something they were trained to say in firefighter school, but then the fire-engine was pulling away, and she was able to retreat back into her shop and lock the door, pulling the blinds to block out the crowds of prying eyes still lurking outside.

The smell of smoke remained but now only a reminder rather than a warning. She leaned against the counter and waited for her heartbeat to slow.

"April?"

She jerked in surprise, looking up to find a familiar figure lurking in the door to the stairwell. Donatello peered around the room curiously, his battered duffelbag secure over one shoulder.

"Donnie?" Her voice quavered traitorously.

"Hey." He eased nearer to her, expression concerned. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Uh, busy night. How did you…? You knew what was going on. How?"

"Well, you have a really good security system in place, you know?"

She shook her head. "Donnie, I haven't had an active security system in here since I met you guys. I couldn't afford the payments, not on what the shop brings in."

Fidget, fidget. "We, uh… changed your provider?"

"What?"

He grinned at her, a little uneasily, and proclaimed, "Turtle Home Security, at your service!"

She merely stared at him, and he started to explain in that rapid, animated manner that meant he was speaking of a topic close to his tech-loving heart.

"Well, the equipment was mostly here – the sensors on the doors and windows and whatnot, even some cameras in the front room and out back. Not great stuff, but definitely workable with some upgrades, and they were already hooked up for long-distance monitoring. It was simply a matter of creating a link between them and the lair computers. For added security, I added some atmospheric and temperature monitors in the ventilation system and at the corners of the room like what we have in the lair in case something goes wrong in the lab. Pretty sensitive little guys, really."

"… sensitive?"

"Let's just say that before I had them calibrated correctly, Master Splinter's meditation candles caused a bit of a stir."

She giggled, and the turtle's half-tense posture relaxed. He reached out and grasped her hand, tugging her toward the stairs.

"Come on. You're freezing... and when a reptile tells you that, you know it's bad!"

He herded her upstairs, checking the locks, turning out the lights. Her feet were almost numb. She held onto the banister like a lifeline all the way up the stairs.

"Donnie… I-I can't thank you enough. I always have this fear that this place would catch fire – there's a lot of old wiring in here, old lights, stuff like that. I don't know how I can repay you."

"Don't even worry about it."

He held the apartment door open for her, and she marveled that a bunch of turtles, raised by a rat in the sewers, could be more chivalrous than men raised with all the education and benefits of modern society. Splinter was a marvel of a father, that was for sure.

Donatello redid all the locks for her while April went to the couch to grab the throw off the back, wrapping it around her shoulders. The soft fabric soothed her.

"Where are the others?"

Donatello laughed softly. "Raph and Mikey? In bed, trying out out-snore each other. Leo, in the kitchen, drinking tea with Master Splinter. It's impossible to leave the lair without them knowing, and Master Splinter always wants to know where we're going."

April glanced at the kitchen clock. Four-fifteen. Not even an hour since she had woken. It seemed like it had been much longer.

"Hey, why don't you go back to bed?" Donatello was peering at her with that intent little frown that Michelangelo called his 'Dr. Donnie' face. "You're pale."

April laughed. "Well, you're a little green yourself. I've got some Dramamine in the medicine cabinet…"

"Funny." Donatello rolled his eyes. "Seriously, April, you should sleep."

"I won't be able to. Might as well greet the day." She headed for the kitchen, wondering if she had any eggs left for an omelet. "Feel like breakfast?"

"Well…"

"I've got coffee. Besides, I want to hear more about these 'atmospheric monitors' of yours. Do you have the schematics with you?"

The turtle smiled broadly and set his duffel down on the dining table. "You had me at 'coffee.'"

* * *

**End Security**


	5. Five Times

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I own only whatever little insanities they happen to perform under my direction. Theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

* * *

**Title: **Getting to Know You

**Summary: **Oneshots. It takes some getting used to, hanging around mutant ninja turtles. "The VCR blinks 12:00 in a never-ending beat, but the television is off, and April blinks blurrily into the darkness, wondering briefly of _where _and _why._"

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **none

**Author Notes:** I've been bitten by the five-and-one bug. Yikes! At least it's a longer chapter than normal to kick off the fanfic revival, hey?

I'm also starting a blog, as though you people don't get enough of me yammering: **Scriptophrenia** (dot-wordpress-dot-com), all things writing – fanfic, original, and… well, yammering. Lots of yammering…

* * *

**Five Times April Woke in the Lair  
(And One Time She Didn't)**

* * *

_Each day is a little life:  
every waking and rising a little birth,  
every fresh morning a little youth,  
every going to rest and sleep a little death.__  
__**– **__**Arthur Schopenhauer**_

* * *

**1. Experiment**

The voices come to her slowly, like waves creeping up the shore, but she is too tired and too comfortable to really care.

"What part of _Do Not Touch _do you not get? How can I make it clearer? _Do Not Touch _means _Do Not Touch, Not Ever, Not If The World Was Ending, Not If You Were The Last Turtle Alive, This Means _You,_ Michelangelo__!_"

"She said she was here to pick up some doohickey for her computer. How was I supposed to know the difference?"

"_It was labelled!"_

"Yeah, but still…"

"But _what?"_

"Dude, you have really tiny writing."

Bangs and crashes – snarling voices and girlish shrieks, echoing around her as though she was trapped on some kind of bizarre battlefield.

"_Get back here!"_

"No!"

She frowns. So much noise…

Then another voice. Authoritative. Peace.

More talking.

"What in the world is going on? Don?"

"Mikey decided to try chemical warfare on April!"

"_Accident, dude!"_

"Wait… what?"

"Come on, it was an honest mistake. Besides, _you_ were the one that said she looked tired."

"Mikey, she has a _job!"_

"She doesn't have to be there until tomorrow, Donnie."

"That doesn't mean it's okay to sleep-grenade _April!_"

"You already tested it on the Dragons."

"Yes! Most of whom outweigh her by two or three times! _Body mass, _Mikey! It's important!"

"You said she'd be fine!"

"Don, really, is she okay? Do we need to get her to the hospital?"

"What? No, she'll be fine. It's harmless. No side-effects, just… sleeping."

"See? Dude, what are you so worried about?"

"_Lots _of sleeping!"

"How long with this last?"

"How should I know? I calibrated these for adult males, not anyone April's size."

"Give me an estimate."

"I can't really—"

"_Don. _How long?"

"I don't know! Er, twenty hours?"

"Then she'll be fine?"

"… with continued drowsiness and disorientation for another twenty-four hours, give or take?"

There is a long moment of silence. She sighs and curls deeper into the warmth that surrounds her.

"… I'm a dead turtle."

"_We, _Mikey. Definitely _we._"

* * *

**2. Sleep-over**

The VCR blinks 12:00 in a never-ending beat, but the television is off, and April blinks blurrily into the darkness, wondering briefly of _where _and _why._ When she shifts, the massive, hard lump beneath her torso jerks and mumbles, and she freezes.

And then she smells the musty scent of filtered sewer air, and she hears the grumbling snore from beneath her and the nasally not-quite-squeaking breath from somewhere behind her, and there is the rough-smooth texture of a giant shell beneath her hands.

_Mikey, _she thinks, lowering her head back onto the pillow braced upon the shell. And _Donatello, _she thinks, uncurling enough to press bare feet to the side of a scaled thigh.

Snores to shame a diesel engine come from further in the darkness. _Raphael. _

There is no noise and no shift in the air, but there is suddenly soft warmth draped over her, a well-worn blanket that covers her from neck to toe, and she smiles into the shadows, already drifting back into the warm embrace of sleep. _Leonardo._

* * *

**3. Sick**

The first thing that strikes her is that someone has removed the bowl from beside the couch, and she cannot decide whether to be touched or mortified. She settles for a bit of both and huddles deeper into the mound of blankets scavenged from around the lair. Her skin is icy cold but her insides seem to burn far too hot – logically, she knows that keeping warm will help her recover, but a fever is a fickle, deceptive thing, and she wants nothing more than to jump in the nearest body of water until she no longer feels like she's roasting from the inside out.

When the drainage channels of the nearby sewer system begin to seem like a tempting swimming hole, she knows it's time for another Tylenol.

As if summoned by this thought, two tiny pills materialize before her nose, cradled in a broad green palm. She squints at them in bemusement.

_Did I do that? _she thinks, and then there is a glass of water beside the pills, also held by a green hand.

"Two o'clock," says a familiar voice. "Down the hatch."

She blinks and squints harder, because changing her eyes' focus from the green hands to the green face is like dialing in focus on an ancient camera. Green snout and white teeth and purple bandana waver into clarity.

"Don," she rasps in greeting.

"Hey," he replies.

She pops the pills and accepts the water, and she does not stop drinking until the glass is drained. Even then, she thinks she could probably drain Lake Erie given half a chance.

"Any better?"

She hums something that is neither a yes or no.

"I'm so sorry," she says. "I don't want to be a pain."

"Hey, we've seen worse than a little stomach bug." A broad grin crinkles the skin around the turtle's snout. "You should have been here for the Great Influenza Epidemic." He winks. "Then again, you were probably better off not experiencing that."

She snorts a laugh – even that hurts, but she doesn't care.

"Thanks, Don," she says.

"Anytime."

* * *

**4. Research**

"April. April, come on."

Her arms and shoulders ache, one of her hands tingling with the onset of pins-and-needles, and something hard is digging into the center of her chest. Something pushes against her shoulder, rocking her from side to side.

"April."

She blinks muzzily, and before her, a blur of black and white resolves itself into a sheet of scribbled equations. Beyond it, a stack of textbooks looms over her, and she can hear the hum of a laptop somewhere nearby.

"April, wake up. You need to go to bed."

The sheer stupidity of that sentence prods her further into wakefulness.

"Dumbest thing I've ever heard," she mumbles. "Wake up and go to bed?"

"Um… yeah."

It hurts to sit up, but she manages, bracing herself against the edge of the dining room table. It takes her a moment to decipher the massive jumble of pens and papers and graphs and diagrams spread before her, and she remembers: a 'Geek Night', as dubbed by Michelangelo, science and techno-jargon so thick in the air that the other three turtles fled to train above-ground and Splinter retreated to his room.

Donatello stands at her elbow, looking down at her with concern.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I was working on the schematics on the computer and… kind of lost track of time."

She mumbles something that might have been acceptance, had anyone been able to understand it.

"It's really late," says the turtle, sounding entirely too articulate to April's muddled mind. "Do you want me to take you home, or would you rather stay here for the night?"

She looks toward the kitchen clock. After a moment, she deciphers the time and moans softly. 3:48 in the morning.

"Couch," she says, and she ignores Donnie's quiet chuckle as she totters across the room to flop onto the worn cushions, cocooning herself in an equally worn, but oh-so-soft, blanket.

Her eyes are already closed, but she hears the soft _click _and sees the change as Donnie flicks the light off.

_Crazy ninjas,_ she thinks,_ wandering around in the dark…_

"Night, April."

"Mornin'," she corrects, more of a grunt than an actual word. Then a thought strikes her, so she adds, "Donnie?"

"Yes?"

"Tell 'em… if they wake me 'fore noon… not pretty."

Donatello chuckles again – more of a snicker, really – and says, "Sure thing, April. Sleep well."

She nods into her pillow, satisfied, and then she's gone.

* * *

**5. Accident**

Her first thought is something like _What…? _but before that can take root and bloom into anything more coherent, it is trampled by the thought of _Holycrapheadhurtsowowow…_

She tries to orient herself – wheres and hows and whys – and remembers only a too-quiet lair, and searching for the turtles, and peeking into a darkened dojo, and then—

_Ow._

There are voices all around, garbled and tripping over each other like a litter of puppies.

"What the shell is wrong with you!"

"April, can you hear me?"

"She startled me, okay! How could I know it was her and not one of you guys?"

"Are you a ninja or aren't you?"

"I was blindfolded! _We were all blindfolded!"_

"What sort of excuse is that?"

"Oh, man, when Master Splinter finds out…"

"I don't think she has a concussion. April?"

"She's not allowed in here anyway!"

"Ninja!"

"_Hundreds _of flips, dude. _Thousands._"

"April, open your eyes for me, okay?"

"How was I supposed to know she was gonna—"

"_Ninja!"_

She makes some kind of noise in protest, because, hello, noise plus headache equals _ouch_, and she's gratified when the voices drop to more acceptable levels.

"Hey, there." There are hands on her face, not warm but not cold, the skin of the palms rough but their touch gentle. "Come on, April, let's see those pretty eyes."

"Dude, what?"

She blinks, and she sees green. She blinks again, and the green resolves itself into four familiar faces. They are suddenly still and quiet, and she takes a moment to just look at them. Each has a scrap of cloth tied loosely around his neck.

The side of her face throbs like a second heartbeat. She works her mouth silently, examines her teeth (all present and accounted for) and moves her jaw (painful, but still in working order).

She sighs.

"Next time," she slurs, "I'll knock."

* * *

**And one time she didn't…**

She wakes at two in the morning for no good reason, and she stares into the shadowy depths of her room for a long moment to wonder why.

And then a faint chorus of snores drifts to her ears, and she smiles into her pillow before she pushes back her covers and stands. Her robe lays on the end of the bed, and she finds it through feel, wrapping the warm terrycloth around herself. Outside the window, flakes of white drift down like a shower of lace.

She picks her way through her room with ease born of long familiarity – avoid the nightstand, around the end of the bed, touch the dresser, follow it to the door. The door's hinges squeak when she pulls it open, but the snores continue unabated, and she eases down the hallway to peer into the living room.

The coffee table has been shoved to one side, and a pile of blankets has taken its place. The blankets shift and quiver like a living thing, and here and there, a bit of green shows amidst the riot of patchwork colors. On either side, her space-heaters run full-blast, set just far enough back that they won't set the pile alight.

Seated upon the couch, a giant rat sits in a meditation pose, eyes lidded. His ears twitch as she enters the room, though, and she makes her way to the couch with all the stealth she knows – which, granted, isn't much, especially in her present company.

Splinter accepts her presence beside him on the couch with a gentle nod of greeting.

"Good morning," he says, his voice kept just above a murmur.

She replies in kind. She eyes the pile of blankets and, when there is no sign that its inhabitants are bothered, she dares speak again.

"Do you need anything?" she asks. "I can get more blankets. Or I could turn the heat higher, if that would help."

"Do not concern yourself. Donatello assures me that the lair's heating system will be repaired within a day."

"Everyone deserves a warm place to sleep, especially when it's snowing outside."

"I must apologize for troubling you so."

She shakes her head. "Really, it's no trouble."

"You possess a gentle and generous soul, Miss O'Neil. My sons are lucky to have met you."

She blushes, a wave of red that creeps up her neck and across her face, and she blames it on the heat – she has never turned her thermostat above seventy degrees before, but she has never had as good a reason as she has tonight.

Instead of replying, she leans forward enough to grab hold of a stray corner of blanket and tuck it around a bare green foot that has somehow emerged from the pile. When she sits back, Splinter has turned his attention to his sons.

"They have not slept thus in many years," he says. "Not since they were still hatchlings. They have grown so much since then."

"I'm surprised they're still asleep," she admits, eyeing the turtle-pile with not a little fondness. To think that the tangle of limbs and shells and blankets before her was an elite family of ninja warriors… She could not help but grin. "I thought ninja were supposed to jump awake at the slightest little noise."

"Indeed, Miss O'Neil." There is a strange expression on the ninja master's face now – amused, she thinks, or smug. "With training, one learns which sounds and smells mean safety or danger – which touch means friend or foe."

He nods meaningfully to the blanket she had just tucked in.

The implication leaves her speechless.

Splinter merely smiles.

* * *

**End Five Times**


End file.
